


Let Your Hair Down

by starsandgraces



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-14
Updated: 2010-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-12 16:00:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/126620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandgraces/pseuds/starsandgraces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCoy doesn't dance, but tonight he has to make an exception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Your Hair Down

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [sleepygoof8784](http://sleepygoof8784.livejournal.com/)'s [prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/stxi_sinfest/1437.html?thread=179869#t179869) at [stxi_sinfest](http://community.livejournal.com/stxi_sinfest/).

He never dances. He doesn't even know why he's here, because he _never_ dances. There are plenty of other places that he could be having a drink, but for some reason, he picked this club.

He doesn't recognise her at first; sees the skin stained green by lights and wild curls and thinks it's Gaila. But when the lights change to splashes of white from a disco ball suspended from the ceiling, so does her skin, and he suddenly knows who it is. When Chekova's on duty, her hair is straightened obsessively and pinned up to expose her pale neck. Here, it's loose and messy and out of control.

Chekova's dress is even shorter than her uniform skirt. McCoy didn't think that was possible without displaying most of her underwear, but she's clinging onto her modesty by the barest thread. He sees a lot of attractive female legs every day, Chekova's included, but they seem different tonight, in the club. It takes a moment for him to notice that she's wearing shoes with a high heel instead of her functional Starfleet-issue boots, but that's it.

She's dancing with a man McCoy doesn't know. He's not entirely sure he can call what they're doing "dancing"; it looks as if someone might end up pregnant. He feels a twinge of something that could be protectiveness when the man runs his hands over Chekova's body as if he has a right to it. Or maybe it's jealousy. He tears his eyes away from the pair, trying to ignore the way the flickers of white light seem to draw his attention directly to Chekova.

McCoy doesn't realise she's not dancing any more until she's right in front of him.

"Doctor?" she asks during a lull in the music. "Doctor McCoy, I thought it was you."

"Chekova," he replies. "You look like you're enjoying your shore leave."

"You look as if you're not enjoying yours," Chekova says. She twists one of her curls around a finger and gestures at the bartender with the other hand. She must have been here for a while, because he brings her a drink without even asking what she wants.

"I'm enjoying it just fine," he says. He holds up his glass as she sips from hers. "Got a drink, listening to some, uh, music. I think it's music."

Chekova laughs. "You came to a nightclub just to sit at the bar and drink?"

"I don't know why I came here," McCoy says honestly.

"All my friends have left." She leans down to say it, offering him a superb view down the front of her dress. No bra. "If you don't have anything else to do here, you can dance with me."

"I don't dance," he replies. "And you seemed to have a friend here a few moments ago."

"He is gone now. I'm sure you've been watching me enough to have picked up some hints," Chekova says. She plucks his glass out of his hand and sets it on the bar next to her empty one. Then she curls her fingers around his wrist and pulls until he follows her back out onto the floor.

In her heels, Chekova's as tall as he is. She presses so close to McCoy that he can feel her nipples against his chest through the thin fabric of her dress, and then she's gone again before he can even process it—but only a few inches away.

"I'm too old for this," he says, half to himself.

"You're never too old." Chekova sways her body slowly, running her hands along his arms. "Hold my hips," she orders.

"Is this really appropriate?"

"We're not on duty and you're not my direct superior to begin with. 'Let your hair down' is the Standard phrase, I think," she says. She grasps his wrists and positions his hands just so. Not quite touching her ass, but close enough that he can take the hint.

She's doing the someone-is-going-to-get-pregnant dance again, simulating sex in a way that would embarrass him if he had two or three fewer drinks under his belt. Instead, McCoy finds himself reciprocating—but it's awkward at first because he's a doctor, not a dancer. It's also been far too long since he's been with a woman. It doesn't help that Chekova is virtually dry-humping him as she dances. In spite of his best intentions, he's half-hard already.

Her fingertips brush the nape of his neck as she leans in to talk to him. "You could fuck me right here on the dance floor," she says into his ear. Her voice is barely audible over the music but her words burn right through him, lighting up a trail to his cock. "No one would be able to tell the difference."

McCoy's almost certain she's right. At this point, he's not sure _he_ can tell the difference. He's even a little tempted.

"We'd get arrested if we did that, Chekova," he says eventually. "But I've got a hotel room."

"I can't wait that long," she counters. The hand that isn't on the back of his neck skims across the front of his jeans and settles on his zipper, tugging lightly. "Take me outside, Doctor."

She has her hand inside McCoy's pants and around his dick before they're even out of the club. They stumble along the sidewalk and down an alley together, touching and kissing as if they're going to run out of time for it all. Chekova makes a low noise in the back of her throat as he stiffens further in her hand and then another when he kisses down her chest, tugging her dress out of the way to circle the tip of his tongue around one of her nipples. His other hand creeps up the inside of her thigh.

"Oh, _yes_ ," she says, as if the thought hadn't occurred to her before now. She tilts her hips towards him in invitation.

McCoy presses his fingers between Chekova's thighs and isn't too surprised to find she's already wet; she's soaking through the thin cotton as if it wasn't there. Even so, McCoy's always considered himself a gentleman, so he kneels, holds her against the wall—one leg draped over his shoulder and her underwear pushed to the side—and goes down on her until she's trembling, incoherent and bucking towards his mouth. Every swipe of his tongue against her clit or inside her is punctuated by a shuddery moan or a tug on his hair.

When she comes, it's so hard that he can feel the vibrations through his own body as well. McCoy pushes down his pants as he stands up and slips inside her before the aftershocks from her first orgasm have fully died away. Chekova contracts around him and he groans, any thoughts of starting off slowly pushed away by his need for her.

So he fucks her the way she wants, the way she's begging him in broken Standard to give it to her: hard, fast and deep. When he pauses to adjust their positions so she won't slip, Chekova curses at him in Russian and arches her body away from the wall to try and drive his cock farther inside her. McCoy doesn't waste his breath on explaining that he was about to drop her, just returns to the same rhythm as before.

"Fuck," he gasps, sliding his hand between their bodies to tease her clit.

Chekova whimpers breathlessly and does the same, and when she comes for the second and third times, it's with both of their fingers on her. McCoy lets himself go at the same time as her third, biting his lip to hold back a groan as he comes, holding Chekova so close he can feel their hearts beating against each other.

He pulls out, and they stare at each other in silence while they both catch their breath and adjust their clothing.

"How far away did you say your hotel room was?" Chekova asks eventually. She reaches up to stroke along his jaw, then kisses his lips meaningfully.

"Minutes," McCoy says, and leads the way.

The next day, Jim displays his unnerving ability to tell when someone in the vicinity has had sex recently. McCoy wishes he hadn't booked a room in the same hotel as Jim. "Come on, Bones, what was she like?" he asks. "And don't hold out on me. I never hold out on you."

"In spite of my repeated requests for you to hold out on me."

"Bones, seriously. Ten words or less, that's all I ask," Jim says, using his best diplomat voice.

"Like Chekova, if she let her hair down," McCoy replies after a long pause, and then refuses to say any more about it.


End file.
